


Echo

by BurningSilence



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Canon Ambiguous, F/M, Gen, Implied Relationship, Late Night Musings, Missed Opportunities, Regret, false-start romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-16
Updated: 2018-01-16
Packaged: 2019-03-05 14:59:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13390302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BurningSilence/pseuds/BurningSilence
Summary: The Inquisition has been disbanded and Cullen Rutherford has settled into a life of wedded bliss with Inquisitor Lavellan, but buried memories come back to haunt him after the arrival of an innocent letter.





	Echo

**Author's Note:**

> The Amell mentioned in here is based on my Amell PC, Faustine Amell.

_Dear Cullen,_

_Oh wait, should I still call you Cullen? Or should I call you Commander Rutherford? That has a rather nice ring to it, doesn’t it? Commander Rutherford._

_Dear Commander Rutherford,_

_There, that’s better, isn’t it? I’m teasing of course, but Zev tells me that it doesn’t come across as well on paper as it does in person, so I suppose I should work on that. Or maybe quit it all together._

_I heard_ **(a large ink blot is left)** _I heard about the lyrium. I know it’s not my place to ask, but I wanted to know if you are doing all right? I know we haven’t seen each other in years, and the last time was…not good. But I worry and I’ll always be fond of you. Alistair told me before that they keep the templars on lyrium. I’m very sorry I didn’t know that_ **(another splotch of ink)** _before. I hear that you’re getting better? The Inquisitor is taking rather good care of you, isn’t she? I’m happy for that. And I hear congratulations are in order! So…congratulations!_

**(There’s what appears to have once been a scribbled face, smiling and sweet)**

It’s late, the flame in his desk lamp burning low, Ellana’s soft snores–he lets himself smile–are floating down the hallway, and the trilling notes of a nearby nightingale echo in the vale outside of their home and ring in his ears. The ink of the note he holds is smudged and faded, the parchment creased and worn, holes appearing at the corners of a couple of the folds, and he lets out a long sigh, setting the letter down on the surface of his desk. He thinks of her, of Ellana and her velvet laughter and dancing eyes, of the gentle glow of magefire and the hollow footfalls that would reverberate off of stone walls. Another laugh, breathy and surprised, as the sunlight would filter in through the stained glass of the Tower’s windows and illuminate golden locks while soft hands accepted the proffered parcel and unlaced the binding that held the wrapping together, green irises glittering and flushed lips splitting into a wide smile to expose white teeth, the corners of her eyes wrinkling, and him, stuttering and stumbling, his face too hot and palms too clammy and sweat gathering along his brow and the nap of his neck.

He leans back in his chair and runs his hands over his face and through his hair, something cold and metallic catching on his curls, distracting him, and he glances out of the window into the moonless sky, stars glimmering in the inky backdrop, and he pushes away from the tabletop, rising to his feet. He makes his way to that window, and presses his forehead to its smooth, cold glass, his tepid breath fogging the surface, spreading away from his mouth as he gazes down into the darkness. He feels the band around his chest tighten, and he pats his shirt before looking back at the desk, at the little scrap of paper fluttering in the slight breeze of the room. He jerks, but shakes his head and leans against the wall, his eyes fixed on some distant point. He swallows the saliva that’s gathered in his dry mouth and inhales, stale woodsmoke permeating his thoughts.

 

_There’s so much I want to say to you. I found something, the other day, something I’d managed to snag from…that time. When I came back to the Circle when…well, you know. Do you remember when I lived on Lake Calenhad, back when I was still apprenticing? And the templars were going into town and we were all whining because we couldn’t leave? I realise now that I was being a particularly difficult brat, but I maintain I didn’t intend to start a fire in the library. I mean it. Greagoir was so angry; I thought he was going to throw me in the lake. I suppose I was lucky I only had miss lunch and dinner to help Enchanter Sweeney…repair the southern wall of the library. Like I was the only one who did any damage._

He should respond. It’s been a month. No doubt she’s given up on hearing from him. Perhaps she’ll think he’s still angry with her. Or that he’s angry she brought up the lyrium. Or his wife.

 

 

He had been so angry, then. So angry and bitter and scared and so mournful that he choked on bile and shards that stuck in his throat and he couldn’t see her without that violet haze overwhelming his vision with the phantom of her little hands and little mouth trailing over his heated flesh only to be brought back into the real world, in a broken Circle surrounded by the broken bodies of his fellow templars, his comrades, his friends. And she stood there, with her little group, her eyes wide and lips trembling as she surveyed the damage after Uldred, after Uldred when everything had fallen apart, and she stood there, crying, as if it had affected her, as if she hadn’t fled the Tower herself with the Grey Warden for helping one of those blood mages, as if she hadn’t hated being locked inside the Circle while she had been there.

And her worried face, slender fingers pressing against his confining wall as bodies festered around him and she had the gall to ask if he was all right and he felt sick upon seeing her figure through the fog and the mist and he closed his eyes, bitter words pouring from his mouth. He spits at her and drinks in some satisfaction from the flinch his shattered words draw from her, her green eyes shimmering under a veil of water but she doesn’t relent and soon he’s reunited with Greagoir, and her with Irving. For the first time he takes in her travelling companions, and one who is too friendly, stands too close, leans in too far, and he tells Greagoir they should still consider the Annulment.

 

_Anyway, I’m getting off-topic. But you visited me, in the library, remember? You asked if there was anything I wanted while you were out, and I was so rude to you (I’m rather embarrassed by it, now that I think back on this) but you brought back this little doll, and I found it! In my old apprentice quarters, that I shared with Jowan. I suppose it was forgotten in the….events that happened between my leaving and the Blight, and Uldred. And it’s mostly intact! I mean, some of the stuffing has gone out of it, and it doesn’t really smell like meadowsweet anymore, but it’s still whole. I have it in my rooms in Weisshaupt, and it made me think of you and_ **(the next several lines have been scratched out, to the point that whatever they said is illegible now)**

The Blight has ended, and the Circle undergoes reparations with Chantry and mages alike working to scrub the stench of Uldred from every surface and shrouded nook, and her voice rings down the empty corridor. His spine is stiff and unyielding as she walks across the foyer with her elven companion, candlelight gleaming off of a golden hoop obscured by her blonde locks, and they fall in line behind the First Enchanter. He catches her eye, and she smiles over to him as she waves, but he does not return the gesture and a frown forms on that comely mouth and he bites the inside of his cheek until copper zings his teeth and coats his tongue. She’s back, again, and he hears murmurs of her seeking recruits–she wants to let more of these powder kegs roam free with no restriction to keep them on their Maker-given paths–and acid coats his throat.

There is shouting and venom that wraps around the walls and stuffs itself into loosened floorboards and pools in the corners of his chambers. Her hair has become disheveled and a flush dusts her cheeks as she snaps back at him–

**//** _We’re not all like that, Cullen_ **//**

–when she damn well knows that it only takes one.

**//** _I’m not going to condemn an entire group of people because of what Uldred and a handful of blood-mages have done here, as horrible as it was_ **//**

Her judgement is flawed, and he tells her as much, tells her she’s blinded by compassion, her own bias, and where was that compassion of hers for the templars and priests butchered by demons and abominations, the very same she wants to let loose in Thedas under the guise of becoming Grey Wardens, the same escape she had when she should have either been made Tranquil or put to the sword so many months ago. And then she looks at him, the blank expression on her face gives him pause even as he watches her lips tremble as she sucks on the lower petal. Brambles sprout along his throat and coil down into his lungs and they strangle him, his voice stolen. His armour is too tight, too heavy, the pauldrons weighing on his shoulders and his chestplate–stifling. His mouth works, opening and closing, but the words, whatever they are, remain trapped in the sticky web that binds his voice. She stares, for a moment, then another, tears gathering along her lashes, and she nods, her hair falling into her eyes and she brushes it away, revealing that golden hoop again.

_**//** I’ve made my decision. Greagoir has already consented **//**_

A breath leaves her, damp and brittle, and she wrings her hands in front of herself, the slim fingers white at the knuckle, and he can see her shoulders shake as her own throat bobs several times, and her eyes dart around the room, settling on everything–anything–but him before she speaks again, and he has to strain to hear her–

_**//** I never thought you would be the one to hurt me the most **//**_

She leaves him, in the quiet, in the dark, with the tapping of her boots echoing in the corridor as the door clicks shut, and those thorns wither and rot in his chest before he swallows them and slumps against the wall with a clang that reverbates against his skull. Blood courses through him, pulsing against the vessels that line his flesh and bones and he isn’t sure how he manages it, but he finds himself stripped and in bed, staring at the stone ceiling before the remaining templars settle in for the evening. Meadowsweet lingers in the air, seeping into his sheets and grasping at him, even as he tosses and turns in his linens, covers winding around his limbs, a ghost of a fantasy–of torment–long passed.

He shivers.

 

 

_Just…write back. If you want to. I’d love to hear from you._

_Be well!_

_Sincerely,_

_Warden-Commander Amell (I’m just teasing, don’t call me that. It’s still Faustine)_

 

He blinks, still gazing into the night, his face wet and chest constricted, the light from his lamp burning low and casting writhing shadows across the floor, and he can hear the rustle of the parchment on his desk in the draught that winds through his house. He rubs his hands together, warmth coming back to them, and he squeezes the metal band that encircles one of his fingers. He twists it around the digit, feeling its smooth–unyielding–body, and it comes loose, falling into his calloused palm, and he lets it fall into his pocket, the pressure against his leg pronounced. He scrubs the back of his naked hand over his eyes, leaving trails of water across his face as he releases a breath, feeling it stutter and catch as he peels his tongue from the roof of his mouth and licks his lips, the dream of honey and meadowsweet lingering there and sinking into his pores and soaking his marrow. He licks his lips until they’re raw, chasing that spectre and resting his face on the cold glass as it clouds around him and the dampness of his cheeks smudge the window.

He peels himself away, running his hands over his face once more, and shakes his head, the ring burning against his thigh. He places it on his desk; he’ll retrieve it in the morning. He refolds the letter: first, along the original creases that it came with when the courier delivered it, displaying his name in achingly foreign script; then along those that he marred it with, caressing the note with trembling fingers and fondling his burden before letting it slip back into his pocket. He stares outside his office, through the door and down the hallway, feeling his heart beat against his ribs–his head throbs with it–and the song of that same nightingale pricking at his ears again. He tells himself he will respond to the note tomorrow and he pats his pocket where the letter rests.

He extinguishes his desk lamp and whispers a name into the shrouded room as his tongue traces every syllable, holding it in his mouth and he locks it in his throat. He swallows. 

**Author's Note:**

> My very first Dragon Age story in a LONG time. Everyone has problems and everyone is a little messed up; relationships are complicated and not everyone gets happy endings, even if they deserve them. I hope that wasn't too terrible for people to read. Drop a comment if you want, I love hearing from people xD
> 
> If you like this kind of thing and want to read more, you can always find me on [Tumblr](http://silencebrulant.tumblr.com) where I post my other stuff, including updates to any series I'm working on, though currently it's an Elder Scrolls project.


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